Myths are not stories that are untrue.
Rather they are tales that don't fit neatly into the historical record.
which serve as a foundation to a culture
This week's tale written by our good friend Steven Van Patten begins at a graveyard in Romania
Ancient headstones worn bare with time vines climbing over the statues of once great Lords dragging them back into the ground
Here funerals are supposed to be a celebration of life
But what if the life they're supposed to celebrate was one of hate and rage
when they die, legends say, their souls can travel to a fiery pit a place of pain and punishment.
Where demons decide how best to torment them
But what happens if a soul is so corrupt that it's actually admired by the demons and devils that haunt this place
Such a person could be brought back as a Strigoi.
A seductive undead being whose only desire is to drink the blood of the living.
Yet there are things even worse than a Strigoi.
For the very worst of souls
the demons gather and say,
"Let him return
Pricolici."
Scratching, clawing through the earth
Rising from his grave.
The Pricolici stands in the moonlight and lets out his first howel
It is a low guttural wail.
That frightens even the most fearsome predators.
A flock of slumbering birds burst from a nearby tree
It sounds like an explosion to the Pricolici's wolf like ears.
He's agitated.
He's hungry.
His first life was violent and so shall be his new undead one
He wanders the woods his desire for slaughter guides him.
A consuming thirst runs through his veins.
Then memories come, he remembers everything.
His execution,
the demons arguing over what to do with him.
His souls return but the thirst pulls him back.
He finds a puddle and drinks.
The water nauseates him.
But he sees his face in the moonlit reflection.
He is not Strigoi.
Like the old tales they told to frighten children.
He is something worse
and better.
suddenly in the air
*sniffing*
He catches a whiff of something that will slake his thirst
blood.
Away in a clearing is an old man and his grandson herding their flock of sheep
They've lost track of time and now have to move their herd in the pitch dark of night
At least they had the good sense to be carrying lanterns.
Though such meager light is little protection against the true horrors that come with the setting Sun.
The sheep sensing danger are agitated and alert,
darting their gaze from one side of the grassy clearing to the next
ignoring the commands of their Shepherds.
Suddenly the sheep begin to run.
For a moment the boy and his grandfather don't know what to do.
Do they attempt to round up their flock or do they make a break for home?
Then they hear it: a growl, low and long.
It's behind them.
They turn.
It has the face of a wolf,
but stands on two legs.
and begins to barrel toward them with glowing red eyes and a slobbering fang filled maw.
"Get back to the house!" the Grandfather screams
Frightened the boy does as his grandfather says.
Running towards home while the old man and the bleating sheep head off in the opposite direction.
But being so young his sense of direction is not yet keen
and in seconds he's lost.
Then the boy hears the screams of the sheep
followed by his grandfather crying out
But the cry is cut short the lantern begins to die and all his silent around him again
Until the growl comes so close behind him.
He turns sees the feral eyes and screams
"Mama!"
The boy's eyes open
replacing the vision of the dark woods
with the sight of his own bedroom
He's safe in his home. The boy's mother comes rushing in asking if he's all right
Embarrassed he realizes it was a nightmare.
His mother sits next to him
And asks if maybe listening to his grandfather's tales were what brought on this bad dream,
"I believe so mama," the boy admitted,
"He said that evil dead people sometimes return as Pricolici or Strigoi and I should be careful in the forest."
Though not terribly pleased with her father for scaring her son
She realized he told him these stories as a way of discouraging him from wandering deep into the woods.
Where many real wolves roam and hunt.
She assures her son that everyone is alright and no Pricolici are lurking about.
Then she kisses him on the cheek, tucks him back under his quilt, and leaves the boy to go back to sleep.
Despite his mother's comforting words.
He still felt troubled, and he lay staring at the ceiling for some time.
But then as he almost drifted off again
He heard a scratching outside his bedroom window.
When he turned to see what it was
He saw that in the window where there shouldn't have been anything but moonlight was a grinning face
Pale to the point of luminescence with eyes that glowed red like two coals tossed in the snow
though the features on the face were soft and inviting there was something blackish red smeared across the lips and chin and
As the grin grew the boy gasped behind the smile was a mass of long razor-sharp teeth.
"I heard your screams."
the thing whispered, "you're afraid of the Pricolici?"
*laughing*
"You have nothing to fear.
I can protect you from the monsters!
Far better than your mother ever could!"
The boy sat up slowly his eyes widening his entire body quivering.
"Just open the window.
We can go back to the woods,
and play, and run, and skip
forever.
and you will never have to be afraid again."
*laughing*
"S-strigoi?"
*laughing*
"I am your friend,"
"The last friend you will ever need."
"And the only one you will want."
"and I want to play."
"WITH YOUUU"
"Noo!"
Lanterns lit up throughout the house then his mother father and grandfather all burst into his room.
Terrified the boy could only point toward the now empty window and mutter the word again
"St-str-strigoi."
His father tried to brush it off as yet another nightmare
But the child's grandfather spoke up saying it was unwise to ignore the whispers of Strigoi.
So they grabbed their lanterns in sides and headed outside
Circling the house and scanning the surroundings
They found no monster
But just as they were to come inside the lantern light reflected something thick and dark
Spreading over the ground a sheep dead its throat torn open
they would spend the rest of the night hanging garlic lighting candles and praying.
and when at last Dom saw them safe the exhausted men
Visited the cemetery to make sure the dead were staying in their graves.
As for the boy,
It would be some time before he'd be able to sleep soundly
Until one day a young woman came by she was British the wife of a soldier
Her name was Emily Gerard, and she was writing an essay about the folklore of the area
So they told her about the Strigoi and the Pricolici
And she wrote and wrote as the Sun was setting and their tails were finishing
She thanked them and left when she got back to England
She would publish the essay titling it Transylvanian superstitions
And eventually it would make its way into the hands of a burgeoning horror author.
An author, named Bram Stoker
And soon it wouldn't just be Romanian children frightened of these monsters outside their windows at night
*meowing*
No, don't worry bud, you are not gonna become a Pricolici.
*meowing*
Jeez, don't sound so disappointed.
Though, you have lived an oddly violent life.
So who knows?
I mean dare to dream.
Legendary thanks to patrons Ahmed Zia Dirk and Kyle Murgatroyd